A Fairy Tale
by Thalaba
Summary: A kingdom under seige, a country at war, innocence in danger. Will honour and love conquer all in this story of blended fairy tales and magic? Rated for sexual content, violence, blood, etc.
1. Parts One and Two

**A/N:** So this story is mostly mapped out already, the outline has been on my laptop for maybe a year cause I'm a geek like that. Anyways, most of the plotlines come from bedtime stories, fairy tales, or Arthurian legend (try and guess! You can make a game out of it!), and I'll just lay out the general disclaimer that if you recognize ANYTHING it isn't mine.

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**A FAIRY TALE**

1

Katie dipped the frayed scrub brush into the pail of harsh, soapy water, a movement in a series of mindless repetition, then returned it once again to the brown slab stone of her lady's solar, moving the rough pig's hair bristles back and forth over the floor in well-practised execution. A cold light was painted across the open sky, colours having changed from jet to grey an hour passed, cloudless, with a heartless sun breaking over the mountains on the horizon, a wasteland of tangled forest between the town and those haunted peaks. She hadn't always been wont to describe her world in such bleak terms. Mistress Bell had seen Catchpole as a haven after escaping from the Creevey Holdings in the east with her aged grandfather and several other fearful wanderers ten years ago. The Weasley Kings were kind and gracious, appreciative of the natural magics someone like Katie could offer their household—unlike the Dukes Creevey, suspicious and distrustful of any power that didn't come from their own hands or mirrors, whom would have slaughtered a young Katie if her Papa hadn't the fortitude to escape the horrors of the war torn lands. She had been midwife to the Princess of Clearwater; the princes' had mourned with her at Papa's death. She was one of them—one of them despite the fact that the Weasley Kings ruled Catchpole now in name alone.

The reason for her despair was currently standing in the archway behind her—Katie had survived these last three years on instinct and spite and a bitter thread of hope—but she'd be damned to show one inkling of unease in his presence and instead continued to scrub. He had commented enough on her ass already, her breasts, her hair, and if more was to come then he could do so without disturbing her work.

"Och, Miss Bell. Such diligence at this early hour." His voice was like rancid lard rolling down her spine. Katie pushed her wash bucket further into the room, the sound of scraping metal keeping her grounded. _Early?_ Only for a household under siege, too afraid to leave their rooms and uncertain of what was still considered duty and what was grounds for imprisonment.

"Work needs must be done, milord." Her tone was one of boredom, near dismissive. After…after…Once she had spat _Bastard_ at him and found herself with a bloody lip and a week in the dungeon. She had cursed obscenities and swore revenge but in the end had learned it was better to remain silent and knowledgeable than be stuck in the dark. There were too many real fears to contemplate so far away from those she considered close enough to family: had her Ladies been…violated? Had her little Prince Arthur been put to the blade just like—Well. Katie knew all the answers now. There was a truce of sorts and for the most part she kept her mouth shut. For the most part.

"Aye, that's the truth." He walked slowly into the solar, boots clicking on the just-washed stone and unbearably too close for comfort. Katie had to rear back to sit on her legs or risk having a hand crushed under his heel. Lord Wood seated himself in the Princesses great padded chair with a fictitious lazy grace, the violet velvet clashing terribly with his gold and red doublet; a long dirk rested near his hip but she knew he could also swing a sword, she'd seen it. His legs extended, crossing at the ankles: Oliver looked down on Katie from his current throne with a cool smugness, a condescension mixed with what he would see as suave. Katie kept her blue eyes downcast, her jaw tight. "I missed ya last night Miss Bell. Where were ya?"

Katie didn't flinch, didn't give him the satisfaction. He wouldn't be asking if he didn't already know. "Why do ya insist on disobedience?" His fine-boned hands, long grasping fingers, rested comfortably over his stomach. "You left without an escort. We've been over this before." Katie inhaled a steadying breath; she would not rant and rave; she would not show herself to this monster.

"Your guards would not know fennel from dragon moss." Bored. Indifferent. "My Princess needed herbs quickly and I would not fail her."

"And yet ya would fail me." Her pail was kicked aside, shiny soapy water surging onto the stone and splashing the woven wall tapestries. He was deadly quick and Katie found her chin captured within those traitorous fingers. _Eyes down, don't look. He matters nothing in the grand scheme._ She would probably have bruises. "Your Lady made terms three years ago Miss Bell. Would ya break them after all this time and bring the wrath of my _fool_ guards down upon Catchpole and this castle?"

The terms. Yes. Princess Penelope had shown more spine that night than any would have thought her capable, swearing to surrender the castle, to keep the lie that all was well, bow to Lord Wood and his vile blood brothers—all with a screaming child and wounded husband in eyesight. She swore to bend the knee if and only if her people were promised complete and utter safety; the smallfolk would continue to work the land and feed Wood's small but cutthroat band of soldiers, the brothel and the tavern remain, the status quo would be maintained without one hand raised to argue _but_ not one woman highborn or low was to be taken against her will and no one was to be put to the sword. No one else. An easy occupation was most agreeable to Lord Wood and so the terms were met, both sides knowing that in the end little Prince Arthur was the trump card and that his life was supported on increasingly impatient wings.

"No, milord," Katie ground out. He tilted her head painfully up, forcing her to stand on her knees or else lean in to the bastard. Her knees could take the strain. She wasn't expecting him to lean down and lick a trail from jaw to temple though, her instinct to pull away overridden by his cruel grip.

"Fools and brutes, aye," he whispered. "But I am neither Mistress Bell." Oliver's thumb moved up and Katie had to close her throat to the rising bile while she fought the urge to bite the appendage off as it brushed over her lips. "Things could be so much easier if ya just listened to me." He released her and moved back, staring down with earth brown eyes that held no promise of warmth or future. Katie met them—foolishly—with all the hate she could muster.

"No."

She watched his jaw lock, body tense.

"No?"

"No…Milord."

Lord Wood stalked passed without another glance.

"Clean up this mess, wench."

2

Wine, warmth, and women. All three were plentiful in the Arrah-Dor, where grapes grew heavy on acres of lush vine—whites, reds, and greens forming a spotted rainbow on the foliage—a vividly golden sun hung like a mother's smiling face from the center of a cerulean sky, shining down on the robust populace that copulated like rabbits as far as King William and his northern army had laughingly observed. Wine, warmth, and women. Yes, even in the massive ivory and marble palace all three were plentiful, but, unlike in the open fields, clustered white-walled domiciles, and scorching desert spaces, inside the impressive home of the Sultan only the first two were offered willingly.

The Sultan Severus came from an ancient family line that once ruled boldly in lands further east than even those of the Creevey Holdings, his people plundered and destroyed by those selfsame evil Dukes and their soul rendering mirrors of misery. But what the man lacked in ancestral land he possessed in abundance his ancestral knowledge. Described often as bats, blood drinkers, spiders, and shadow dancers: they were poisoners and potion makers, cataloguers and collectors of vast libraries; their memories were solid like iron and steel but so were their oaths and loyalties. Severus had escaped to the south and married the late Sultan's incorrigibly intelligent daughter Princess Vectorla—not for love on either end but for money and power and possibility—and thus Severus of the Spinner Lords became Sultan of the Southern Lands of Arrah-Dor, a widower, and a father all in the same year. A father with a harem of female tutors for his beyond incorrigibly intelligent daughter all guarded by deadly female warriors trained since their first steps to hold a spear or bow: Crown Princess Hermione was not to be exposed to the unbridled lust of any man and if King William wanted the Sultan's wisdom and support in the Great War against the Malfoy's and Earl Greengrass then he would keep his northern men in line.

William did so William would. It wasn't as if he feared his soldiers would break troth with the glowering, sullen, seemingly humourless Sultan. No, they were all good men—proud and red-blooded yes, but with enough sense to find their pleasures elsewhere.

His brothers on the other hand…

If George and Frederick didn't exert some self-control over those overactive tongues Severus may very well demand them cut out—and the way things were going William might just let him. In shady corners, down gleaming midnight halls, and even between drills: the twins flirted with and beguiled almost every female to cross their path. It was an embarrassment verging on dangerous which William had set consequences for many times in the last four years; nothing of a dishonourable nature had reached either his or the Sultan's ears so far but it was only a matter of time; they weren't perfect and it would only take the wrong woman, the wrong corner, and William would be battling his chief supporter for the lives of his brothers…as annoying as they were.

He missed Charlie often. It was hard to be King, General, and Brother to so many men, even harder with three younger siblings depending on him to keep them alive through sword, sweat, and diplomacy. It would have eased William's burdens greatly to have Charlie—the so called Bear Prince—by his side; their stories were their own and not just words to entertain bored soldiers, bright-eyed brothers or a sickly sister; they remembered Old King Arthur and Queen Mollina perfectly and not just the sleeping malady that had claimed both their lives, left Ginevra a frail child-woman. The responsibility would not have felt so great with Charles' self-depreciating humour and booming voice, but William could not regret appointing his brother as Keeper of the Realm. There was a war to fight but Weasley must be kept as well and one could not find a better man to hold one's throne than Prince Charles. Perceval had the intellect to be sure, knew all the laws and accountability belonging to a ruler, but the younger man was more suited to his library than battle and, while appreciated, did not have the people's love quite like Charlie.

William grinned to himself while sipping a strong cup of black cocoa—a warm bitter drink of the Sultans making—watching the flickering embers in the low bronze brazier flash sprites and shadows along the white walls as he sat and waited for his evenings companion. Lack of prowess with a long sword had not hampered Percy where it really mattered, the prince the only one wed and titled Father out of six brothers. All had been convinced the fine-looking Princess of Clearwater had to come to Weasley to seek William's hand but instead she had asked to meet straightway the gentleman who had written to offer such moving condolences on the death of her adored father. The engagement had been indecently short and William had a nephew to prove Percy's other strengths.

A son or daughter: would he ever claim that privilege? William had had offers of marriage in the past, but, unlike everything else he was willing to sacrifice for his kingdom, his heart was not one of them and the King of Weasley refused to share half his self with a woman he did not love. Closing in on forty with a war near finished but only ravaged territories left in its wake, William doubted he could hold on to that ideal for much longer.

He cocked his red head at a noise from behind then smiled softly and stood to welcome his guest.

The Lady Fleur was Sultan Severus' honoured guest in Arrah-Dor, a refugee from the fantastically named and little-visited Angel Islands; a masterpiece of any sailor's story, the fabled ocean grouping was inhabited by winged beings twelve feet tall who sang songs fit to make a lion weep and sustained themselves on fairy violets, their breath perfumed with spun sugar and sunshine. Their homes were hive-like, made of gold and amethyst created through alchemical means gleaned from the Gods themselves. The Lady had found it hard to laugh at such nonsense when William had first tried his hand at conversation—no easy task when faced with such supposed grandeur. Covered completely within layered sheets of emerald silk and a hood of heavy satin, a gauzy veil concealing her countenance from even the sharpest eyes, The Lady spoke sweetly yet sadly of her Isles, the last of her kind in a strange land thanks to the greed and barbarism of a fleet of Greengrass warships.

Gold and amethyst and other precious gems they had—calmly mined by a peaceful, charming race and dutifully sacrificed to the Islands only deity, a feathered round-bellied girl who brought warm rains and the joys of love to al her worshippers—and fairy violets as well, though the Islanders were not fool enough to eat pretty poison when rich farmland supplied maize, wheat, rice, and the sweetest pear trees to ever touch the lips of mortals.

Severus had been tight lipped and humourless on hinted questions of fabled beauty, coldly informing William of his rules on lasciviousness for the one millionth time before suggesting he ask The Lady herself. The King of Weasley was not such a clod and enjoyed her conversation for years before cocoa was shared, thus giving William his first glimpse of naked flesh. Her hands were rough and red, joints swollen with skin akin to beaten leather, nails haggard, lips and chin cracked: William accepted his cup without a sound and The Lady made no mention of his too-wide stare. He could not believe she was an ancient relic, a bent and twisted crone on last legs withered by some crippling disease; her movements were graceful, elegant, her walk fluid, letting her slip in and out of shadow like a fluttering breeze. Were all her race afflicted so? Or had she been cursed by Greengrass sorcerers, burned horribly by plundering pirates as she fled? William had never been able to ask and The Lady never offered.

"I trust you spent the day well, my lady?" The Lady inclined her covered head and accepted a gilded cup of steaming cocoa.

"The weather was very nice and it was not too warm in my parlour. And you?"

They exchanged their regular pleasantries, comfortable silences, and William listened contentedly to The Lady's latest remembered anecdote about her people, her family, her younger sister—all gone. Her voice was calming, soothing, and at complete odds to her apparent appearance. William watched her racked lips slide over the cup's rim, leathered cheeks twitch and swallow; her smile was not a pretty one but the King felt neither revulsion nor suspicion as a superstitious man would. The Lady Fleur was a gently bred, intelligent, kind woman who had been subject to one cruel twist of fate after another. He laughed at her jape and put down his cup.

"My brothers would do well to hear your wit, my lady. Perhaps then they would stop doubting mine." He cleared his throat and laughed kind-heartedly. "They sometimes think you are a figment of my imagination, so seldom do they count your presence at meals or in the yard; they are rather sceptical of any real lady spending time in my company out of her own free will."

She was silent for a moment and even after so many years William thought perhaps he had overstepped himself or that his words would be misunderstood. When next she spoke her words surprised him, holding as it did such tentative curiosity.

"You speak of me to your brothers often?" The king swallowed but did not lie.

"Of course, my lady." She bit her bottom lip and for some reason he found this endearing. It somehow gave him the courage to ask again the favour. "They are good lads, protective, and would like to meet such an honoured guest of our gracious host, The Lady who occupies the majority of my evenings." They had always flirted easily with one another, a gentleman and a lady, but even William felt something about these words, could feel the intense look that came through her veils of silk.

"Those lads would truly doubt your wits once they saw what occupied your time." He furrowed his eyebrows, not liking her tone. He had brought them into dangerous territory.

"Would you judge all men so harshly, my lady? I have seen and I—"

"You have seen nothing!" She was up and away before he could blink, her harsh moments unnatural to his eyes, her fury displaying an arm of flesh to match her hands: burned, cracked, leathered. She spoke disgustedly in a language foreign to his ears—most assuredly a curse or ten—before taking a deep breath and turning once more to the bewildered king. "I have little cause to trust any man, Your Grace, but I had thought you…Do you ask this of me for your brothers or for yourself?"

William didn't know what to say and felt like an untutored boy than the seasoned warrior he was, mind as blank as what he oftentimes suspected Ronald's of being. How could this woman unman him so? Make him believe himself lower than the ants that congregated in the thousands in Arrah-Dor's deserts?

"My lady I meant no offence."

"No? Be sure to tell your brothers that."


	2. Parts Three and Four

3

Penelope sighed deeply, quietly, and watched her reflection in the cheval glass, watched her lady Mistress Spinnet slide a comb through the heavy mass of her long brown hair, adding the finishing touches on the ensemble with which the Princess was to wear to meet her husband. Her stomach was a churning tide of nerves, the anticipation and hope a deadly combination as she knew the reunion ultimately depended on the good will and amusement of Lord Wood. Penelope had had three years to build a cold patrician façade and thus the tears that wished to flow freely were forbidden to come, not even in the privacy of her chamber or in front of those of unquestionable loyalty like Alicia Spinnet—the Princess would not tolerate weakness in her person, not when her family and people depended on her as a mark of strength. It was becoming a desperately difficult burden however, which made this visit with Percy all the more important.

It had been thirty days since she had last seen her husband.

The castle was their home and their prison; the Prince and Princess were housed in separate wings, the better to batter down their defences, the better to catch either of them breaking their own oaths due to emotional torture and thus release all from those self-same oaths. The oaths kept everyone safe and Penelope would rather betray her heart than the small folk and servants that depended on her spine of steel. There could be no tears for royalty even when her beloved and her young son were used as pawns to keep her subservient.

"This dress is lovely, Your Highness," Alicia praised with genial cheerfulness, a cheerfulness Penelope knew was entirely for her own benefit as with most Mistress Spinnet's tongue was dabbed with sarcastic wit and repugnance, a privately welcome change from the terror or bitter apathy most of the staff had adopted. Survival could be ugly but it was as it had to be.

"Beauty means little these days," she sighed again, smoothing a hand down her soft lamb's wool tunic, the blue complementing the cream sheen of her spun silk dress. "I would much rather have an appearance of luck than simply an appearance." It could have been construed as cruel to say so. In three years of occupation there had only been one message sent by the King and Penelope had been inclined to hand that over unopened to Lord Wood as soon as it had left the poor Page's hands. The boy had been killed in front of her—though few had knowledge of the fact—an apparently needed lesson in how easily her own child's life could be taken away. It was hard to imagine good prospects at this point.

"We often must make our own luck, Your Highness," Alicia murmured innocently, prompting Penelope to turn around, an unsettled expression briefly flashing over her face before a heavy pounding on her boudoir door made them both start, hands grasping for then quickly dropping away from the comfort of a shared clasp or squeeze of solidarity.

"Come along, Highness. You paramour awaits!"

Penelope locked her jaw momentarily, a sudden image of ripping the eyes from the owner of the most despised voice nearly staggering her. Lord Roger Davies: the knife waiting to strike, the swollen abscess, the all-seeing eye. Her shadow. She swallowed and pulled back her shoulders, prepared to face his lecherous stares and insincere visage.

"At once milord."

He was waiting with offered arm as soon as she crossed the threshold and, as refusing held repercussions Penelope would never consider, she laid a cool hand over his velvet doublet and moved into step along with the villain's easy stride. She did not initiate conversation, did not blush or affect any sign of discomfort at the sensation of Roger's eyes clawing over her bare throat or sloping bosom—the Princess would give no encouragement to what she knew to expect anyway. Alicia trailed behind, far enough not to incur Lord Davies' annoyance or to disrupt her Lady's stoicism for which Penelope was grateful.

"Are you dressing to impress, Highness?" he raised an eyebrow, lips supremely smug as if baiting a small animal, confident in the end result. Oh how she despised his mocking voice! "It's been quite a while since Perceval's even seen a woman. Such dedication to your attire is a misplaced extravagance." It was not a simple slight against her husband or her style. Roger meant to imply her love had received no healing attention, no care at all in the last month, but Penelope was unfazed.

"An extravagance would be to wear my dowry jewels to simply enter another wing," the elegant royal made her own not-so-veiled snubs. "That would most assuredly be a misplaced endeavour."

Though the three Lords persisted in emulating a charade of courtesy—though she was pained to admit that Diggory seemed a pawn to the other two—they were nothing but thieves and murderers, having confiscated anything of visible worth soon after their coup. Jewels, crowns, and the like that were left were brought out only for balcony addresses to the populace. She fought the grimace as Roger halted their progress.

"I would have to disagree, Highness." Penelope's features were blank as he raised a free hand to remove a non-existent piece of something from her tunic, fingertips grazing over her neckline, lingering. There was no philosophical discourse coming and the Princess put another lock on her temper hoping Alicia would do the same. "Such a desire would mean seeking out one of my brothers in arms…or myself." There was a flash of teeth, a brush against her inner wrist and then a slow squeeze. "It would never be deemed a misplaced endeavour to pursue my company. Or have I been too subtle in my attentions as of late?" There was no time to generate a suitable retort as Alicia quickly cleared her throat.

"The Prince is waiting, Your Highness. Milord."

"Thank you for reminding us Mistress Spinet." Roger's eyes were as cold as well water as he turned slightly towards her lady-in-waiting and Penelope had an urge to tell the woman to run fast and far. Instead she swallowed more of her pride, stepped back, and replaced her hand on his arm.

"Shall we continue?"

There wasn't even a nod before they proceeded once again down the corridor, taking the next right…in the direction of her solar. "Are we taking a scenic promenade?"

"Do you wish to?" Roger's lips curled. "Your son _is_ waiting for you."

Penelope felt her insides freeze. No. No, Arthur was playing outside with Neville—under the watchful gaze of severely armed guards but playing nonetheless. She was supposed to see him at dinner. "Yes, I summoned the dear Prince to play a hand or two of whist. He'll find it enjoyable and I hoped it would take the worry off your shoulders, Highness." If she had not known better Penelope may have confused that mocking tone of his for true sincerity. "None truly know the dangers inherent in this world until tragedy strikes. Wouldn't you agree?"

Thirty days since she had last seen her husband thirty days since she had last seen her…

"Of course. Milord."

4

"She wants _what?_!"

There was a whack and Alicia grasped her arm, giving Katie a sullen yet remorseful glare. "Sorry, sorry," she whispered, not sounding very sorry but knowing the necessity in keeping her harridan mouth quiet. "But I'm not giving **The Witch** a lock of my hair!"

Neville worried his salt and pepper hat, rolling the thick tweed material between his calloused, work-weary hands as he watched the two intimidating women warily. His eyes were downcast but his ears were perked, listening for the sound of heels stopped around corners, of the clatter of cutlery from a servant passing through; even a man as naturally congenial as he knew not everyone could be trusted and that war made people desperate for any sort of edge.

A gardener would never be considered a threat by men who killed with impunity, never considered intelligent or worth suspicion, and while his pride—and body—had taken many blows since the Catchpole Occupation, Neville would always be grateful that the Lords thought him too stupid to be involved with plans of espionage. Unlike everyone else who worked for the royal family he still had the freedom to come and go and whatever he could do to help he would. Even if it meant conversing with Luna Lovegood, The Witch. In a kingdom like theirs that welcomed all kinds of personas, The Witch had been crowned with a mystique both dreaded and revered. Cannibal, prophetess, spell caster, mad: the blind woman had been labelled with monikers a hundred times over—most of which had to be lies, Neville reassured himself repeatedly, or the Weasley Kings would have banished her ages ago. That was the true root of the problem. Age. The Witch had been an object of apprehension in Catchpole since the time of his forefathers, though her countenance remained that of one no older than himself. And as far as the elders were concerned this kind of witchcraft could only be brought about by a follower of the Black Arts. Mistress Bell had taken more then her own safety into jeopardy on a recent visit to The Witch, but Neville trusted these women he had seen give so much of themselves since King William's soldiers marched out.

"There's no time to argue Alicia," Katie's voice was hushed but firm. "If hair is what it will take to help Princess Ginevra then I'll shave myself bald and so will you! As it is now Lovegood is only asking for a lock from each of us, Princesses and Prince Arthur included."

"Are…are things so dire?" Neville ventured, slowly donning his hat. The status quo was currently acceptable was it not? He blushed hotly, suddenly feeling terrible for such callous thoughts. He didn't have the likes of the Lords breathing down his neck.

"There is no ease from the sleeping sickness Neville," the woman's eyes were filled with a dread resolve, "none that I can offer in any case. Hope is passing us all by and I will not let the Princess' life pass with it." She slipped a hand into the large front pocket of her grubby apron, lifting free a tightly rolled piece of light blue fabric that even a peasant like Neville could recognize as a section of the late Queen Mollina's wedding gown. Alicia's mouth dropped and Neville was about to protest but Katie shook her head and pushed the item into his grasp. "Give him some of your hair Alicia and be quick about it, we haven't time for your squeamishness!" The other maid glowered then reached up to tug a thin lock from the back of her head. There was a grunt and a wince but she passed it over without an argument.

"What—what do you wish of me?"

Katie gave him a kinder look but it was only momentary.

"She will not hurt you Neville, I swear it, but you must bring this to her with all speed."

As he looked down at the material in his hands, a fabric worth more than his home, Neville swallowed.

"They say she eats strangers who venture into her hut."

The blond became incredulous then shook her head with a sigh.

"Bring The Witch dinner then and perhaps she'll be merciful."


	3. Parts Five and Six

**5**

"That smells delightful Neville Longbottom. Please sit down; I will only be a moment."

The gardener swallowed passed the dryness in his throat and slowly sat down to the rickety table occupying the majority of what he could see of Lovegood's dark hovel. He had spent the time hiking from his own home forcing his worked hands to stop shaking, to show himself for the man he was in front of The Witch Mistress Bell had sworn she wasn't. The bright half-moon hadn't helped, revealing his lone presence upon the winding paths and heather to any eye bold enough to spy into the darkness. It made him think of soul-draining spectres and spindle-legged spiders, of ridiculous crawling things waiting to strike him down. The door had been unlatched and Neville had had to steel his courage to enter unannounced, holding tightly to the satchel at his hip which held the blue fabric as well as various female hairs—what The Witch had requested in return for her help.

The woman's hair was long and white, somewhat delicate, reflecting her true age he supposed; it hung down passed tiny shoulders and a winsome waist. Her voice was light, her movements airy as she moved back and forth between two steaming cast iron cauldrons, every now and then snatching items off her haphazard shelving and humming a song Neville was convinced would end up turning him into a spotted toad.

"Did you make that gingerbread yourself Neville Longbottom?"

"It's shortbread," Neville blushed, looking at the small basket he'd place on her table by the flickering tapers, his hat once again being tortured by his own hand he was so nervous at her knowledge of his surname.

"Of course," she turned slightly and smiled. "I do so love gingerbread. Katie Bell said you were talented with your hands. I had expected flowers." She approached, holding out an apple-bottomed clay urn and Neville bit his lip, repressing a shudder. She frowned.

"I can bring some n-n-next time!" Neville shook his head vigorously, lifting the potion from her grip as she thrust it towards him, being careful not to brush her fingers. Her large milky eyes blinked sightlessly, the thick scars on her eyebrows moving up and down as she reached for and perfectly captured a square of shortbread. Her small lips opened and closed rapidly as she devoured the dessert, it was gone within moments and her smile was startlingly white and straight.

"I would like that very much Neville Longbottom. Now give me your bag and be on your way, Ginevra's sleeping sickness will not improve in the waiting."

Neville blanched, untied the satchel and placed it on the table, taking a shaky step back as Lovegood swept it up and turned back to her cauldrons with a swing in her step and a shuffle of her deep blue skirt. Blue like Queen Mollina's wedding dress. The wood grain of the table was blue as well. "What witchery is this?" he murmured, mouth open in nervous wonder.

"They must both drink if they wish to be unseen," Lovegood explained absently, unwrapping the expensive fabric and dropping it into one cauldron, the hair into the other much to Neville's shock.

"What must I tell Mistress Bell?" he gaped at her audacity.

"Katie Bell knows the journey she must take and the trust she must put in strangers. Just as you must trust I will not eat you."

"I—I--!" Neville nearly screamed as The Witch was suddenly standing before him, mutilated eyes staring up into his own and thin fingers holding what looked like two beans close to his face.

"Katie Bell eats the red, Ginevra eats the green, and I like blue flowers Neville Longbottom," Lovegood leaned in close while Neville began to inch towards the door. "Best not keep any of us ladies waiting."

**6**

Princess Hermione was economical of movement as she reattached her very sober black veil with the petite silver fastening that pressed irksomely against her cheek. The Princess had been raised with a rather easy parental hand—practicality before many of the moral ideals that infused the strong character of Arrah-Dor—and was accustomed to showing her face to all and sundry. Her annoyance had to be accepted however in favour of her father's wishes: there were too many men inhabiting the royal palace and she for one was looking forward to the day they returned to their own homelands.

She shivered faintly at the half-truth and studiously went back to the giant tome laid out on the low study table, the glossy black stone gleaming in the light of several oil lamps and candles. "You should not be here Prince of Weasley," the Princess spoke sternly over her shoulder, keeping her voice low but pointed. There would be no use in calling attention to her situation and thus the Sultan's guards down on her usual sanctuary in droves now; what was the purpose of a personal protector if one clumsy Northern heathen could get past her defences?

"My apologies Princess," came the mumbled reply which Hermione was positive was accompanied by a scuffing of the redhead's leather boots. "My brothers are tiresome company compared to the peace found in your chambers."

"Prince Ronald!"

The remark was verging on highly inappropriate and the princess had to ignore both his disappearing grin at her exclamation and her suddenly heated cheeks. Perhaps there was an advantage of possessing facial garb after all. She turned back to her reading with a huff that she would never have admitted was such for all the illegal magic in the world. "And what would you and your brothers know of peace?" the Princess sniffed haughtily. "If my Father had not _offered_ your kind shelter I believe a palace lock-down would have been ordered." It was horribly melodramatic, only a sternly humoured vocalization of her night-time fantasies: the strange foreign knight barging through her doors, demanding and taking and showing her what books and lectures could not.

"Well that's unfair!" came the young Prince's defensive reply, the clap of rough leather boots resounding on her heavy carpets telling of Ronald's ungainly trot. Graceful he was not. . .but he was comely. And she had never before seen red hair. "We're fighting a war! A war that affects your people as well as mine!" Hermione felt a pinch in her throat as he looked down upon her, surprised then when he snorted and sat down, pushing a corner of her gilded book with what was most likely a grubby finger. "Do you even know what the Creevey's are capable of inflicting on. . .on a pretty girl like you?" The last was mumbled ineloquently and Hermione felt another flare of heat steal across her covered face, an idle thought wondering after her personal guard Lina soon passing. She could have admitted to hearing the compliment in his muddled speech. She _should have_ retreated and called her spears-women to attend, to drive the heathen from her femininely fragile presence (Oh the hypocrisy of her Father!)—"If Katie was here she'd tell such tales to add more curl to even _your_ hair!"

Instead Hermione let jealousy rear it's ugly head and lashed out.

"Oh would she, Ronald of Weasley? Would she indeed tell stories while you warred? And I assume your _Lady_ would pat your hand and bring you dinner and never utter an intelligent thought of her own outside of questioning your happiness and gullet?!" Hermione's voice had risen to an outraged hiss, and, as they sat so near to one another, Ronald could only lean back from her venom. "Well? Would she? Would your _Lady_--"

"She's not my Lady."

"Oh."

The silence was a humiliating spell onto itself.

"And I wouldn't ask for a pat on the hand Princess. . .I would ask for a kiss."

Hermione slammed her tome closed.

"You'll get neither from me!" She grabbed her layers of robes with both fists and prepared to stand when Prince Ronald did the unthinkable and grasped her elbow. "You dare—"

"If not a kiss then a story of your own!" he sputtered, releasing her immediately but with large pleading eyes. "I'm sure with-with all these books"—the word was not said as graciously as I could have been—"that your imagination knows no limits." He had mentally fought over _imagination_ as well, and the Princess rolled her eyes, but ultimately sat down. She licked her lips behind her veil, regaining her aura of superiority.

"I do not care for. . .constructed lies Prince Ronald." Hermione narrowed her eyes at his unmistakable laughing mouth. "But I do know a true story, a secret that you must not share." She had his attention if his own gaze was any indicator.

"A secret?"

"Yes."

"Does the Sultan know?"

"Well. . .yes." Ronald's stare became cagey and he folded his arms.

"So it's something the Sultan doesn't know you know."

The Princess huffed again.

"Do you want to hear my story or not?!"

The Prince leaned back on the sumptuous pillows, interest piqued.

"Carry on."

He was infuriating! And yet the Princess could not help but feel powerful, captivating, all his attention focused on herself. Hermione took a deep cleansing breath, reminding herself to be purposefully vague with this true story. The main character _was_ locked away within these very walls. The candlelight seemed to flicker at the thought but Hermione hastily brushed away such nonsense.

"Once upon a time," she began softly, "there was a woman made of ice—"

"A real woman?"

"Yes a real woman Ronald! From the tips of her toes to the fringe of her long hair, the woman was snow white, even her—"

"It's just her colour right? This isn't a metaphor is it? You said this was a true story."

"Are you never silent?!"


End file.
